


Now Shall I Sleep

by brilligspoons



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilligspoons/pseuds/brilligspoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not easy, letting go of the love of your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Shall I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by **pocky_slash** and **darthjamtart**!  <3

He says, "Think of this as your first warning, not the second or third or sixth. I don't want you to feel as if you're in trouble, either - you're not. I know you're close, you're very, very close."

You say nothing. He frowns, nods as if all your thoughts are laid bare before him. "Of course you are," he says. He pats your knee. You want to stab his hand. "I have to get back out there. You'll be fine here, yes?"

He doesn't bother waiting for you to answer. You always tell him to go fuck himself when he asks, so maybe he's tired of hearing it. You're tired of having to say it.

You've spent most of the last year (8 months, 3 weeks, 4 days, he mentioned it this morning, he mentions it every morning) sitting in this room. You know the exact length of each crack in the paint; you know how many holes there are in the ceiling, and you know which are in danger of getting bigger. You made a few of them yourself, though you can't do that anymore since he removed everything that you could have thrown at it, and then he strapped your arms down when he tired of you throwing your fists into his face.

You know that the carpet hasn't been vacuumed recently, or cleaned properly in longer than that. You think the blood stain from the first full day you stayed in the room is still visible, though it probably doesn't resemble blood so much anymore. You crane your neck to glance at it - no, looks like a gravy stain, not like blood, definitely not like your blood.

The PA system crackles somewhere above you.

"I'm thinking tomato soup and grilled cheese for lunch today." His disembodied voice is all static and wavering; you think the system needs to be replaced or repaired somehow - who knows how long it's been since it was installed. "It's rather chilly outside." You wouldn't know, you can barely remember what the weather was like the day he took you off the streets and brought you here. "I promise not to spill the soup on you this time." _Liar_. You've seen his eyes glaze over at the burns you have on your neck and chest from the last soup lunch. He's been itching for a chance to see your skin redden and blister again.

Still: tomato soup, grilled cheese. You don't think you liked either of those things before you came here, but they sound _heavenly_ right now. More filling than your last meal, anyway.

"I'm coming back early today," he continues. "There's not much going on, and I thought you and I could work on some things together. Maybe we could talk."

You shift your hand a bit and give the speaker the middle finger. "Fuck you," you say. It's weak, and he can't actually hear you anything you say, you know this, but it feels a little like victory.

You close your eyes.

(Precious few moments like this one exist.

You're in a house that isn't yours, lying in a bed that doesn't smell like you or him, wearing clothes that neither of you would ever think of buying. The walls swallow the sound of your breathing, so you lie on your side facing him while he lies facing you to make sure you're both still alive.

"We've been here before," you say.

"We've been here forever," he says.

You frown. "That can't be," you say.

He reaches out with one hand, softly presses a fingertip onto your bottom lip. "We've been here forever," he repeats. You inhale together, hold your breath for a moment -

You closes your eyes.)

***

It's been nine months and three days since he brought you to this place, wherever it is, and you've started dreaming again.

You dreamed a lot at first, all the familiar faces and voices blanketing your subconscious in a parody of comfort that left you feeling warm and whole even after he stripped you of your clothing and refused to bring it back. Your precious memories, your fantasies, even just the faint echo of your loved ones calling to you on the outskirts of your mind - they were all _there_ , they were so vivid and real that for weeks you woke confused and disappointed not to be back in your bed, safe. You cried once (or maybe it was twice, you can't quite remember now) when your dreams brought you back to the attic of your family's home and the heat of summer and the slight _press_ of your little sister's body against your own, and then you opened your eyes to the weak sunlight through the bars on the window illuminating his face above yours and -

The dreams stop. You forget your stepfather's face first, then your mother's. Your sister (you think your mind is playing tricks on you when she is both blue and fleshy pink) is the last to be forgotten. Her voice inside your head is the last to say your name, and then one morning you wake up and wonder what names are.

But you have the passage of time, at least until he decides to take that away, too. He brings a wall calendar in with him every morning, slashes through another day with a black pen and announces the progression.

"Nine months, three days," he says. You blink away the foreign feeling of _dream_ and _dreaming_. "What have we learned since yesterday?"

You say nothing, you don't move a muscle. He beat the rest of the noise out of you last week, broke both your middle fingers when he caught you gesturing at the PA with them. A thrill of defiance surges in your belly, but you shove it down.

"That's good," he says. "You're doing well." He presses against splints he set your fingers with, and a whimper worms its way out from behind your teeth. He frowns. "Well. Better than you were, anyway. We'll fix that soon. Didn't I say that you were close? I think you're finally beginning to see."

You say nothing. You inhale. You close your eyes.

( _Precious few moments like this one_ \- but that's not right, is it, is it, there are only moments like this one, moments made of you and him and breath and _the heat the pain the pressure the press of his skin on yours of him inside moving moving moving moving_ -

No. Stop. That isn't right either.

You open your eyes. He exhales, breath moving in a gust across the bed and onto your face. He presses his finger against your lip again, then sets his hand back down on the bed in between you. "We've been here forever," he says.

"Nine months and three days," you say. "Nine months and three days is not forever."

He frowns. His hand surges off the bed and toward you again, and -

You close your eyes.)

***

Eleven months have passed, and you've started dreaming again, about walking.

It's an odd thing, you think, to be dreaming about walking of all things. You remember, however vaguely, having to be carried in to the room; you've never been able to move your legs of your own accord. But you've woken up every morning for two weeks feeling the phantom _stretch pull swing_ of muscles in limbs you forget are attached to you most of the time. You see them clearly, carrying you across gravel and grass, striding across tarmac toward a sleek black airplane, rushing over shimmering sand until you collide with something solid and warm and familiar.

These are memories, not dreams, you know this somehow. After all, the heat rising off the blacktop, the flush of your skin from the sun, the bulk of muscle you tackle to the ground - these are acutely visceral, things that stay with you in your waking hours, you stare down at your hands and remember clutching, grabbing at him, the sharp sting of his fist across your mouth, his weight pinning you, you remember - you remember his face.

He walks into the room, closes the door behind him, and looks down at you. He seems to be waiting for something, but for what, you can't imagine. It's so hard to _think_ these days, and the dream is still with you, the feeling of his skin on yours is still there -

"You're trying to break it, aren't you," he says. It isn't a question. He leans over you and taps at your temple with a finger. "I thought we'd finally gotten past this. You've been quiet lately, you've been so good." He strokes your face with the same finger, cocks his head to one side. "What's changed, I wonder."

He stops. His eyes go far away from you and the room, as if he's listening to something that only he can hear.

"Ah," he says after a moment. "So you've been dreaming. I'd worried about that."

"I know you," you say. Your voice is rough and grating even to your own ears. Those three words tear at your throat.

He smiles. Terror and affection well up inside you at the sight of it, and a tiny sound escapes from your mouth. "Of course you know me," he says. "You've known me forever."

Your eyelids droop. You fight to keep them open, but his hand covers your face, and he's speaking again but it's not to you someone else is in the room that's never happened before _who is it who is it who is it_ -

You gasp and squeeze your eyes together, and the pressure of his hand on your face disappears.

(Precious few moments like this one exist.

His fingers trace your lips, your eyes, the angle of your jaw. His eyes follow after, taking in the smattering of freckles across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose, the beginning scratch of stubble on your chin and upper lip. You know before he actually does it that he'll lean in closer and press kisses onto your skin, you crave it, a sharp almost painful _want_ in your spine, and you sob helplessly when it happens. He shushes you, and his hands move to cradle the back of your head while he mouths at your lips.

"How long have we been here?" you ask.

"Forever," he says.

You exhale sharply, and you know he's lying though _how_ you know is a mystery to you. You close your eyes. When you open them again, he's still there, you're still lying on a strange bed facing him. You touch his skin, he pulls you closer, you have done this before, you want to spend the rest of your life doing this -

"How long can we stay?" you ask.

"As long as you like," he says. "We never have to leave."

You close your eyes.


End file.
